


Service Request, or There's Something About Mrs. Robinson

by transfixme_quite



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other, There's something about movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 16:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20212663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transfixme_quite/pseuds/transfixme_quite
Summary: You are a stagehand at There's Something About Movies, and Michael Sheen has requested your assistance.





	Service Request, or There's Something About Mrs. Robinson

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how this show is run for real, and I don't care. So if this is completely wrong and you know it, just enjoy it anyway please! Also, I've allowed for Reader to be as vague as possible, so you'd feel involved with the song. (Sorry, New Radicals reference lol).

You linger around the studio, feeling pretty unneeded. It's a typical day. Being a runner for the celebrities that come in and out on a daily basis meant a lot of your time was spent waiting for someone to send you off on an errand. You pick at the catering, no one is looking, anyway. And there it is, your work phone buzzes. A text message.

_ You’re needed in dressing room 4 _ .

You sigh, pop one last grape in your mouth, and adjust your shirt. Once you make it to the dressing room, you knock twice and listen for an invitation. None came. You lean in closer to the door, thinking maybe you missed something, when suddenly the door opens. You snap up straight, and look up into the soft, smiling, bearded face of Michael Sheen. You’d seen him walking around all day, and maybe you’d managed to catch his eye once or twice but you catch eyes with lots of people. He smiles wider and opens up the door enough for you to walk in. He’s wearing a white t-shirt, short black boxer briefs, and nothing else.

“I need some assistance preparing for the next scene.” He says as he shuts the door behind you and makes his way to the wardrobe. He pulls a sexy black dress with sheer sleeves off the rack and holds it against himself, swaying slightly, with a bit of femininity. “What do you think?”

Your brain short circuits for a moment, but you collect yourself pretty quickly. “It’s cute. This for the Graduate scene?” You manage to say it calmly. He nods, hangs the dress back up and removes his shirt. You can feel your pulse begin to quicken. His underwear is tight and small, but in the best way, riding low on his hips so the dimples right above his ass are visible. You try not to stare, and he notices. He smirks at you, and takes the dress back down. His eyes stay fixed on you, as he removes the hanger, unzips the back, and pulls it over his head. As soon as the fabric falls perfectly over his body, it's like he's a different person.

"Would you?" He says softly. He turns slightly, and you know he means for you to zip him up. Your heart is pounding in your ears as you step cautiously toward him. He smiles knowingly, almost smug, and turns his back to you completely. You place one hand on the small of his back to hold the dress in place, and your fingers pick the zipper with care. The metal teeth joining together are loud, the only sound in the room other than the soft breathing between you two. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder why not a single stage hand has barged in yet to hurry up the dressing, as you realise you're tugging the zipper up unnecessarily slowly. You see him reach up to touch his shoulder, and he looks back at you, leaning a little into your touch. The zipper reaches its end, and you smooth your hands over his back to indicate you're done, and take a step back.

“Now, what are we going to do with all of this?” He runs his fingers through loose curls, and they bounce back into place. His accent seems lighter somehow, and you notice the vanity in the room with several options available. He’s meant to recreate the look from the movie of course, so there’s a few different clip-on buns laid out to choose from. You glance at them and it only takes a moment to know the curly clip on is the one. You walk together to the vanity and he sits in front of the mirror, expectant.

“I’m not a stylist, sir”, you inform him. Hair and makeup really should be in here handling this, not just you. You really only ever bring refreshments or deliver messages. That’s all you’re really allowed, more like. Michael seems to not have heard you, even though you’re standing directly behind him, speaking at a normal volume. He picks up the curly clip-on and hands it to you, and you take it without question. You lean over him to also grab some hair spray and a brush, and you start gently brushing his hair back, spraying gentle bursts to keep his hair soft but tamed. He closes his eyes, more from relaxation and pleasure than to shield them from the aerosol, again melting under your touch. You pop on the curly attachment, proud of the volume you’ve created with the look.

“Look at that,” he says, his voice lilting more than before. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.” He touches his hair, admiring your work for a few moments, and then picks up the eyeliner on the counter. He spins the pencil in his fingers with finesse. “Maybe you can help me with this too?”

By this point, you feel like you are existing outside of your body. You can’t tell if he’s method acting or if he’s actually trying to seduce you, and you’re not even sure you care anymore. You decide to just go with it, and you take the eyeliner from him, move around so you’re standing over him, his right leg between both of yours. You tilt his head back just so, just enough to properly apply the eyeliner to those beautiful eyes of his that are currently drilling deep into your bones. Your hand steadies his face, gripping tight on his chin, and if you let your thumb brush over his lower lip, well, no one ever has to know. He inhales sharp and quick, and stills himself without you having to tell him.

“Close your eyes,” you say. When he does, you release a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. He smirks, almost imperceptibly, but at this distance it’s impossible to miss. The pencil is soft enough to glide over his eyelids without a snag. The pigment is incredibly strong, and the lightest swipe is enough to lend drama to the entire look. You know he needs mascara. It’s one of those things where people think it doesn’t make any difference since it’s hard to see, especially on camera. Which is why most makeup artists opt for false eyelashes to make up for it. The intimacy of the scene, of the moment, though, required subtlety. It wasn’t about seeing with the eyes. It was about feeling in your soul. 

“You’re doing such a lovely job, dear.” He says, fluttering his eyes open. He tilts his head, watching as you pull the wand out of the mascara. His eyes travel from your hands, up your body, and meet yours while he licks his lips. You gesture for him to look up, and it’s only seconds before his eyelashes are long and dark. You bite your lip. He looks absolutely beautiful. You turn around, placing the mascara back on the counter, and you feel his hand on your hip. You look back at him, down at him, and he’s looking up at you. No one moves for several seconds. He’s studying you, you realise. Reading your reactions, waiting.

“Your lips need colour.” 

He looks intrigued, but also a bit surprised. “It’s not meant to be a full glam, love. We only have so much time after all.” He laughs as he says this, but you feel like you’ve been in there with him for an hour already. Time is standing still, you suppose, because not a single thing that’s happened since you’ve walked in here has made any logical sense to you. But you’re still inches away from this stunning creature, and you’re staring at him, and he’s asked you to do these things that you were absolutely not even a little bit hired for, and dammit, if he’s decided you’re the one to be doing this, you’ll be damned if he’s gonna sass you. Some part of you that’s disconnected in a different way reminds you that you’re not getting a bonus for any of this. 

“I’ve got tinted lip balm in my back pocket,” you remember out loud. “For emergencies,” you clarify. Emergencies are usually post lunch dehydration and end of day exhaustion. His hand follows the curve of your body from your hip and over your ass, his fingers slipping into your pocket to retrieve the lip balm. He takes his time with it, and with an innocuous nudge of his hand, you move an inch closer to him, as if you weren’t already close enough. He reveals the lip balm to you with a flick of his wrist. You pop it open and apply it to his lips. It's another subtlety that ends up completing the look. You let him look at himself in the mirror, and he smiles, satisfied.

“Not full glam. Wonderful.” The way his eyes twinkle as he looks up at you and smiles is delightfully fiendish. You notice a few stray hairs and you push them back into place, your fingers trail down behind his ear and down his jaw. His smile softens and then fades, his hand is back on your body, moving up your back, and there’s an inferred direction to lean down, and you do. He leans up into your space and your lips meet. You grasp his neck, and you can feel him fist your shirt, coming a bit untucked from the pull. Your knee goes up onto his thigh to steady yourself, and his other hand reaches your face, gentle compared to the intensity of the kiss.

“Mm,” he moans into your mouth, and then pulls away so sharply that the separation makes you breathlessly lean in again in the split second between heaven and purgatory. You open your eyes, still so close face to face, his expression soft but authoritative. He places a hand on your abdomen and tenderly pushes back. You stand up straight and fix your shirt, your heart in your throat as you pretend to not be at all affected by what just transpired. He leans slightly to the left, looks in the mirror. “Not a smudge. Long wear. I like that.”

You clear your throat and step out of his reach. He gets out of the seat while you’re still a bit dazed, and produces a pair of sheer, black thigh highs from somewhere in the room. He sits on a chair on the other side of the room, placing his foot on a small stool that you’re sure hadn’t been there before. You watch carefully as he gathers the thin material all the way down to the toe of the stocking, as if he’s done this before a thousand times. Gently, he inches the fabric up, making sure the hair on his leg isn’t tugged against the grain. 

The hem of his dress has slid up in the process to reveal most of his leg, and as the elastic reaches his oddly smooth thigh, he lets it snap on his skin to secure its placement. He looks up at you from under his long, pretty eyelashes, just a glance to make sure you’re still looking. He stands, preparing the other thigh high, rolling the fabric in on itself. A different method of application, but just as experienced as the other. You’re sure he’s showing off at this point, as he slips it on, raising his foot onto the chair, and leans over as he rolls it onto his other leg. He smoothes it over his upper thigh when he reaches the elastic, running a finger under it to secure it.

You see black strappy open toe heels near the wardrobe, and you make your way to them, and grab them with swiftness. You step right into Michael’s space, gazing at him, knowing this is all going to end soon. “May I?” You hold the heels in your fingers, right at his chest level. He smiles, raises his chin, and then sits back down in the chair, stool still at his feet. You sit on the stool, and he places a foot on your knee. You feel a sudden urge of desire to paint his toenails. With as much care as you can muster, you slip the shoe onto his foot, marveling at the perfect fit. You feel like the royal heir the night after the ball who has finally found your Cinderella. 

You buckle the strap, and grasp his ankle to set his foot down on the floor. You glance up, realising you can very much see up his dress, and even though he had been in nothing but his pants only a short while ago, this positioning is quite thrilling to you. You take his other foot on your knee, and follow the same, methodical steps as the previous, sure to buckle the strap tight. Your fingers linger on his ankle now, however, and you begin to slide your hand up his leg. He leans back as you take your time, and you would swear his legs spread open just a bit, the farther up you go.

Your fingertips reach his thigh, passing the band on the stocking, and caress his bare skin. Only then does he pull his foot away from you, closing off your access to his body. You wonder if you crossed a line, but you remember the kiss. You look up at him, and he is already standing, and you feel so small, like he could crush you under his heel, and your last words would be words of thanks and worship. He is a goddess before you now, and you feel like you might cry. 

Michael places his fingers under your chin, guiding you to your feet with ease. Once standing, he places a hand on your hip, the other on your neck, his thumb on your jaw, and draws you closer into his body. He kisses you again, like he knew you were thinking about it, and breathes you in, as his teeth tug your bottom lip. His fingers are digging into your waist so hard, you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow. You can’t wait to see them.

A loud bang on the door knocks you both out of your senses. “We’re on in five!”, the voice from the other side declares sharply. Michael pulls back and smiles at you, and all at once your body is free from his hold. You feel an emptiness you will never be able to explain.

“I appreciate the assistance.” He says with unnecessary strength. “I may need your help again, once this is all over. If you’re available, that is.” He bats his eyelashes at you, and you nod.

“Whenever you are ready, my name is-”

“I know your name.” He cuts you off, smiles, and turns away, leaving you with the sound of his heels hitting the floor as he walks out. The exhilaration overwhelms you, and you make your way out of the room too. You glance back in for a moment, then shut the door and make your way back over to the catering, waiting for your next service request.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first and possibly only Reader fic, so I had to write it in a way that made it feel more realistic to me and allowed the actual reader to get lost in the moment, and I hope that came through!


End file.
